Leopold Blue

by Rosie Rowell

  This had made Mum very angry. ‘Why do you say these things?’

  ‘Somebody needs to,’ my grandmother replied, fixing her eyes on Mum. ‘These are things your children need to know.’

  ‘No they don’t! Outside your tiny world, Mother, is another one where people are not judged solely by their appearance.’

  ‘Tosh!’ had been my grandmother’s response. I’d never decided whether she was dismissing Mum or the idea.

  Leopold’s horizontal roads didn’t make the town look fatter; from my position above they seemed to squash the town into the narrow valley bed.

  Inside the school a door slammed shut. A few moments later came the sound of Buddy, the school janitor, whistling and jangling his keys. As I turned around Juffrou du Plessis emered from the gloom. I sank to my haunches and rummaged around in my satchel, pretending to have lost something.

  Juffrou stopped next to me and looked out over the valley. ‘Pragtig[*],’ she murmured, admiring the view. ‘“I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.”’

  I stood up and stared across at Bosmansberg, silently begging any form of help to make her leave. Eventually she turned to me, opened her mouth to say something, but decided against it. As she started down the stairs, she muttered, ‘Poor child.’

  Juffrou took a while to shrink. I watched her lumber down the hill. In a bigger world my problems would be far smaller – Juffrou would be nothing more than a grumpy teacher; Mum an average freak. When Xanthe walked into the classroom, she’d stepped out of a world that was everything I had been longing for. I wanted to be part of that world so much that it ached.

  *. A long, greenish venomous tree snake

  *. Beautiful

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The steeples of Leopold’s churches formed a triangle above the tree line. The largest was the face brick clock tower of the new Dutch Reformed church. At the bottom end of the Main Street was the gothic-shaped steeple of the old Dutch Reformed church, at the top end the sandstone Anglican church.

  The new Dutch Reformed church, set in the heart of the well-to-do properties with their arched gables and front rose gardens, was designed to be the single most important building in town. The clock tower steeple could be seen from any position. Its 1950s face brick design was windowless apart from a row of square panes along the top. Mum called it ‘the bunker’.

  The Anglican church had been built by the English missionaries. As Mum was the only white member of the congregation, Father Basil held services in the community hall in the Camp. The church was unused except for weddings and funerals.

  I cut through its churchyard on my way down to the Main Street. In the far corner of the graveyeard, near the cluster of children’s gravestones, was the bent figure of Witbooi, the self-appointed verger. He had always looked 150 years old. Even in the hottest weather he wore the same brown nylon trouser suit over a threadbare blue V-neck jersey. Dad called him ‘Meneer[*] Professor’ despite the fact that Witbooi was illiterate. He claimed that Witbooi carried in his head an uninterrupted history of the region for the last hundred years. More than that, Dad said he was a ‘seer’. I tried to avoid the tiny, age-stiff man with his toothless smile and creased face, in case he might see too far into me.

  He straightened up as I passed and beckoned me over. On the ground in front of him was a bird’s nest with three tiny Francolin chicks inside. The mauled mother lay to the side of the tree. I pulled the sleeve of my jersey over my hand and covered my nose.

  ‘Devil dog,’ he breathed and inclined his head towards the police station. His voice was whispery, like tissue paper. ‘Take them.’ He picked up the nest and put it inside an old cardboard Castle beer crate.

  ‘What? No.’ I looked around. ‘I don’t think they will survive, Witbooi. They’re tiny.’

  ‘Take them to Marta,’ he insisted.

  The balls of brown fluff looked blindly upwards, mewling for their mother. They would continue to do that until they were too weak to hold their necks up any longer. Beth and I had rescued enough baby birds to know that these ones had very little chance. But Beth had a rule that if you didn’t try and save something you were complicit with its death.

  ‘Alright, then,’ I said and took the cardboard box.

  At home I went in search of Marta. ‘A present from Witbooi,’ I said, placing the box on the kitchen counter.

  ‘Silly old fool.’ She peered at the nest and shook her head. ‘They won’t survive the night. No doubt full of fleas.’

  ‘You know the rules, Marta,’ said Beth, who had come to have a look at the chicks. ‘Are you happy to have their blood on your hands?’

  ‘That’s not rules, that’s nonsense!’ said Marta but she abandoned the ironing, set about mixing up a bowl of milky Pronutro and found me a syringe.

  That evening I stood next to Dad and peered down at the birds, a sense of responsibility tugging at me. Marta had transferred them to a Wilson’s tennis shoebox padded with an old towel and shredded newspaper. The box, under the desk lamp in Dad’s study, was a makeshift incubator.

  ‘Poor little buggers, not likely to survive the night,’ said Dad.

  ‘They enjoyed the Pronutro,’ I said.

  Dad shook his head. ‘Why do people think birds like Pronutro?’

  ‘What else would you feed them?’

  He frowned at me. ‘Regurgitated worms.’

  ‘Be my guest!’ I lingered over the box. Dad’s study always made me feel better. It felt safe to be surrounded by stacks of his notebooks full of his neat spidery cursive. His handwriting was contained and measured. Mum’s handwriting was so erratic that sometimes even she couldn’t read it.

  ‘There was a new girl at school today,’ I said, thinking back to Xanthe’s pencil case and the beautiful pen.

  ‘Nice?’

  I wrinkled up my nose. ‘Can weird be nice?’

  He looked up. ‘You’re nice.’

  I smacked his arm. ‘Maybe not weird, exactly. Different, I suppose.’

  ‘Well now, different is always nice, especially around these parts.’

  ‘Ja, right,’ I said, thinking of Esna and Elmarie and Juffrou’s reaction to my very different mother. ‘Dad, you have to talk to Mum.’

  ‘Do you think so? I said hello to her just last week.’

  ‘You’re not funny,’ I scolded. ‘Juffrou had a go at me at school today. She says Mum’s a troublemaker and … she could get arrested,’ I finished weakly.

  Dad frowned. ‘She’s educating people about a disease. She’s saving the farmers a lot of time and money.’

  ‘But standing in front of the clinic with a bucket of condoms?’

  He chuckled.

  I stamped my foot. ‘You need to stop her, Dad.’

  ‘Shhh, you’re upsetting the chicks. They’re fighting for their lives, they don’t care about condoms.’

  I left him at his desk. He was no help. He didn’t have to put up with Juffrou and Elmarie and Esna. At any sign of trouble he disappeared behind his books and his rocks like a dassie[*] darting out of sight.

  I woke the next morning thinking of the chicks. As I reached over the box and picked up the nearest one, I held my breath. Its tiny claws tickled my palm. Its racing heartbeat pulsed into my carefully closed hand and up my arm.

  ‘Well, I never,’ said Dad, peering over my shoulder.

  ‘Isn’t it amazing,’ I whispered.

  ‘Not sure I’m amazed,’ replied Dad.

  I was in awe. They had survived! It was a sign – from God – that life had taken a dramatic turn for the better. Perhaps they would grow up and live in the courtyard and every time I passed they would fly down and perch on my shoulder. At the very least, it meant that Xanthe would be my friend.

  ‘They’re still more likely to die than not,’ added Dad.

  I couldn’t wait to get to school. It was as though a suffocating cloak had been lifted from my shoulders.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ aske
d Elmarie halfway through Afrikaans.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re different today.’

  ‘This is the way I always am!’ I said, laughing loudly. I stole a glance at Xanthe, but she hadn’t been listening. It didn’t matter. I didn’t mind when later in the day she chose to sit at another pair of empty desks rather than next to me. Everything would work out – it was all a matter of time.

  At home, Marta had made banana bread. Banana bread was delicious at any time of year. In winter it was comforting and wholesome. In summer, when Marta kept it in the fridge and served it with a thick smear of butter, it was cool and moist. Today, when spring sunshine mingled with the sweet oozing fruit and hovered in the kitchen, it was sublime.

  Mum and Beth were at the table. I sat down and cut a large slice.

  Beth was talking at Mum with her mouth full. ‘It was so unfair on the Romanovs, don’t you think?’

  The loaf was still warm from the oven. It fell apart exquisitely in my mouth.

  ‘Don’t you think, Mum?’ repeated Beth.

  ‘Hmm?’ said Mum without looking up. It was her standard ‘Shhh! I’m busy,’ reply. She sat at the far end of the table, letters and newspapers spread out around her, her reading glasses balanced at a ridiculous angle on her nose. Behind her Marta leaned against the sink, examining a piece of paper in her hands.

  ‘You’re a mother,’ continued Beth. ‘Imagine what the poor Tsarina felt, seeing her children herded off to that grotty holding house, when they’d never before left a palace in their lives. And the boys were haemophiliacs, you know. And then,’ Beth looked around the table, ‘they shot them!’

  Marta clicked her tongue. ‘The acts of evil men.’ She shared Beth’s love of a good drama.

  Mum took off her glasses and looked up. ‘It wasn’t that simple.’

  ‘Complicated murder is OK,’ I said, cutting another slice of bread.

  ‘No,’ said Mum, drawing out the ‘o’ sound. Her tone suggested she was talking to a very stupid and potentially dangerous person. ‘There is no excuse for killing, but you must understand it in the context of revolution and war. Change is painful,’ she added, looking meaningfully at me.

  ‘What?’ I said. ‘Do you think I don’t like change?’

  The smallest inclination of her head. A raised eyebrow.

  ‘Are you joking?’ I said. ‘I’m dying for a bit of change around here.’

  ‘Ha, ha,’ said Mum severely.

  ‘Those men were evil!’ said Beth loudly, annoyed by the deviation. ‘That poor Romanov family. Did you know, Marta, that they sewed their rubies and diamonds and tiaras into their coats? I wonder whether the Tsarina knew they were going to die, but made them do it to keep the childrens’ hopes up.’ Beth fell into a reflective silence, before saying, ‘Thank goodness Anastasia survived!’

  ‘Praise God!’ said Marta.

  ‘What?’ said Mum.

  ‘She got away! She ran away from the men with guns!’ Beth paused for a sip of water. ‘Do you know that after all she went through some people doubted that she was in fact Anastasia. But it was obvious – she had absolutely no idea what money was!’ Beth shook her head in wonderment. ‘I’m going to call my daughter Anastasia.’

  I turned to Mum. Four years ago I had brought home the same story. She threatened to call the Cape Provincial Education Department. When I begged her not to, she’d shouted: ‘But it’s not true! How can they teach you things that aren’t true?’

  But she appeared to be softening with age. Or perhaps it was Beth. She leaned towards Beth. ‘Do you remember old Mrs Schultz?’ she said in a low voice. ‘She was a Russian émigré. She arrived here in 1920 without any money. Perhaps Anastasia ended up here.’

  Beth narrowed her eyes at Mum, then returned to her banana bread. ‘Don’t be pathetic.’

  Marta had been fiddling with the letter all through Beth’s anti-Bolshevik rant. Twice she had been about to say something, but each time turned back to the sink. It must be important.

  I kicked Mum’s foot under the table and motioned towards Marta.

  Mum looked up. ‘Marta?’

  ‘Miss Viv?’

  Mum looked back at me.

  I mouthed, ‘The letter!’

  She shot me an exasperated look and then said, ‘What’s in the letter, Marta?’

  Marta picked up a washed pot, and put it back down. ‘It’s Simon,’ she said. She turned and studied Simon’s photo on the fridge.

  ‘Anything the matter?’ Mum’s voice was unnaturally bright. Beth forgot about her dead Russians. I felt my wonderful day begin to lose definition and dissolve, like heat rising off tarmac.

  ‘He will be back in a few weeks. He’s coming home,’ said Marta quietly.

  ‘But he was supposed to be away the whole year. It’s only August!’ I burst out. I felt Mum’s eyes on me.

  ‘It will be September by the time he’s back,’ said Marta. ‘Anyway, it’s time he came home and made himself useful. All this nonsense travelling the world, and with Mister Tim paying so much money … The child needs to get a job.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Mum. ‘He’s a star and we are so proud of him.’

  Blood thumped against my skull. Of course you are, Mother! I thought. You can’t wait to have him back, never mind your own children!

  Then I looked up to see the smile that Marta couldn’t hide and felt bad. I knew Marta missed her son, but I didn’t want him home. It was easy for Beth, with her dyslexia. All she had to do was bring home a pass and be showered with a gruff ‘That’s my girl!’ from Dad and a wobbly smile from Mum. Yet my ‘B’ aggregates infuriated Mum. Her mouth would set, even if I was one of the top five girls in the class. ‘You’re not up against your class, Margaret,’ she’d say in an intense whisper that was supposed to inspire, ‘you’re up against yourself.’ As far as she was concerned, not ‘reaching your potential’ was worse than lazy. It was unethical. But if you already knew you could do something, what was the point? What sense of personal achievement was there to be gained from that?

  That night I couldn’t sleep. I checked on the chicks, I sang them a song. I lay on my side, I flopped over onto my tummy. I curled myself into a small ball, I spread myself out like a starfish. I focused on a pure green light between my eyes. It was hopeless. The only sound was the intermittent chime of the grandfather clock in the hall, wheezing its way through the night: 11.30, 12 o’clock. 12.30. My back hurt, my eyes ached. My skin itched as though insects were crawling all over me. I searched my sheets. I changed my nightie. Nothing. Nothing but this endless night.

  It was Simon, of course. It was the news that Simon was coming home.

  Once upon a time I’d thought Simon the smartest person in the world. After Dad. And MacGyver. But that was when he had grasshopper legs and his ears stood out at forty-five degrees and it looked as though he had slipped on an extra-large pair of hands over his own.

  ‘Karraboosh,’ I said to the dark night.

  Karraboosh was Simon’s word. In a house that buzzed with what Dad called the ‘unfathomable female disposition’, Simon commanded attention by being silent. Hours passed without him saying a word. Then he’d tell a screamingly naughty joke or he’d start talking, very quickly, about a jumble of topics: a story he’d heard at school or the names and order of the planets or the gestational period of an elephant cow. Often he’d simply say ‘karraboosh.’

  It made Marta furious. ‘For God’s sake, Simon, stop that nonsense!’ she’d scold. ‘It’s not even a word!’

  He’d raise his eyebrow in disagreement. ‘Karraboosh,’ he’d whisper, loud enough to set Beth and I off.

  Karraboosh lasted many years. Beth and I still used it sometimes as a private deal-sealer.

  The trouble with Simon was that he had everything I wanted and it wasn’t fair. My parents had used our money to pay for him to go away. When I’d asked to go to boarding school they’d refused. ‘Why would you want to leave me, princess?’ Dad had l
ooked horrified. ‘You’ve got the rest of your life to discover that Leopold is the best place on earth.’

  While I resented the way Mum heralded Simon’s every success, I hated it when Dad took him fishing. One day I found Simon and Dad packing the car. It was not long after Elmarie had informed me that P.W. Botha would be very upset that I’d called Simon my second-best friend. I was sick of watching the two of them drive off together. I bet P.W. Botha wouldn’t be pleased about that either.

  ‘Why should Dad take Simon fishing again?’ I shouted, stamping my foot.

  Another closed door, more fierce whispering lest Simon’s feelings be hurt. Simon didn’t have a dad.

  ‘So he gets to take mine? That’s not fair!’ I kept shouting.

  ‘No, so you get to share. You’re very lucky to be in a position to share,’ replied Mum, looking pained by my insolence.

  I wasn’t lucky, I was left out.

  As the clock chimed a lonely stroke, I sat up and switched on the light. I had a bad feeling about Simon’s return. Why did his letter have to arrive today? It felt like a challenge. He’d had enough good fortune in the past few years. It was my turn now, and I wouldn’t let anything ruin that.

  By the time I arrived home from school the next day the chicks had died. We buried them in the Wilson’s tennis shoebox at the bottom of the garden, next to a cluster of other rescued birds, a hamster and three goldfish that the cat had eaten before it had been bitten by a snake. Beth sang the whole of ‘All things bright and beautiful’, although one verse would have done, and planted another handmade cross.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re so cheerful about,’ I said as we walked back across the lawn. She had no idea what these deaths signified. Although I knew it was ridiculous, I blamed Simon’s letter.

  ‘I was thinking of all the things we can do when Simon’s back,’ Beth said. ‘We should go down to the river and rebuild our swimming pool!’ She grabbed my wrist. ‘We can go camping!

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ I said, shaking my arm free.

  ‘Why is that silly?’

  ‘Simon is nineteen,’ I said, ‘Why would he want to hang out with a snotty little eleven-year-old?’